Main cast: Demi Moore (Elisabeth Sparkle), Margaret Qualley (Sue), and Dennis Quaid (Harvey)
Director: Coralie Fargeat
The Substance has won a slew of awards, and it’s a mystifying development because its groundbreaking message— “women are vain creatures afraid of aging, and bad things happen when they try to stop it” —is about as fresh and original as a piece of bread left out since the Eisenhower administration.
Whether it’s Sunset Boulevard, The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone, Death Becomes Her, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, or any other play or film featuring an aging female lead, this message has been preached at us by an industry that embodies the fear of aging like it’s their full-time job. Which, let’s be honest, it kind of is.
But here’s where it gets really funny: This so-called “profound commentary” is being delivered in 2024, when most Hollywood folks have body parts younger than their grandchildren and enough plastic and silicone in their faces to give BP traumatic flashbacks. The sheer amount of filler, Botox, and surgical intervention in Tinseltown could probably solve the global shortage of medical-grade materials.
Even better? The main cast members of this movie have gone under the knife and received enough Botox injections that their faces could survive a nuclear winter. The cognitive dissonance is so thick you could cut it with a scalpel — which, coincidentally, is what half the cast has become intimately familiar with.
The movie follows Elisabeth Sparkle (subtle name, very subtle), who at the ripe old age of 50 —practically ancient in Hollywood years, basically one foot in the grave — finds herself besieged by insecurities about her age and continued success in acting. You know, relatable problems for the everyday woman watching from her couch in Akron, Ohio.
Elisabeth gets her hands on “the Substance” and upon taking it, becomes a version of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Her Mr Hyde is a younger, hotter version called Sue, who loves her appearance and has plenty of casual sex because apparently casual sex is now evil when done by women, or something.
Soon the two versions hate one another and start plotting each other’s demise, because what’s a body horror movie without some good old-fashioned self-loathing literalized into attempted murder?
Watching this movie, one keeps wondering: “Why, oh why, did this thing bag so many awards?”
The body horror is more cartoon funny than genuinely disturbing. It’s gross, sure, but in a South Park episode way rather than a Cronenberg nightmare way.
The film is also constantly interrupting itself with cuts and pauses to create this “Oh-so-very-hype” vibe that feels dated and exhausting, like a music video directed by someone who just discovered jump cuts and won’t shut up about them.
“Look! Did you see that? Did you SEE how STYLISH that was? Aren’t you IMPRESSED?”
Yes, movie. We saw. We’re whelmed. Distinctly, aggressively whelmed.
There’s also a deeply weird contradiction where the movie shows off the lead actors’ nude bodies in loving, lingering detail — perfect lighting, perfect angles, perfect everything — while simultaneously wagging its finger at the audience like a stern schoolmarm:
“How DARE you aspire to such physical perfection! Aging is natural! Plastic surgery is BAD! Also, here’s another slow-motion shot of a perfect naked body. But don’t LOOK at it! Well, look, but feel BAD about looking! Actually, we spent a lot of money on this shot, so definitely look. But FEEL GUILTY!”
It’s like the movie wants to have its cake, eat it too, Instagram it from twelve angles, get it professionally photographed for its portfolio, AND lecture you about the evils of carbohydrates. Pick a lane!
Ultimately, The Substance resembles an overlong Ryan Murphy production — all style, not very much substance (ahem), and far too aware of its own inflated sense of superiority. It would be one thing if the story were groundbreaking or brave, but it’s just rehashing a tired old narrative with “artsy” nudity and cartoon body horror that wouldn’t scare an easily startled hamster.
One can’t help but wonder if its biggest fans are normies who don’t actually watch horror and hence find this the best thing since naked, sexy sliced bread. Actual fans of horror —people who’ve sat through films by David Cronenberg, John Carpenter, early Peter Jackson, Takashi Miike, et cetera — will likely find this movie an overhyped nothingburger with delusions of profundity.
